


Two Journeys at the End of the War

by AQLM



Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, Falling In Love, Healing, Implied/Referenced Torture, OMG like the slowest of builds., Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Realistic portrayal of recovering from trauma, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Undecided Relationship(s), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQLM/pseuds/AQLM
Summary: Ten years after the end of the Reaper War, the galaxy has begun to heal. For Commander Shepard, this means settling into her role once more as Council Spectre, a soldier in the Alliance Navy, and loving wife to the galaxy's most proficient information broker, Liara T'Soni. For Samara, it means resuming her duties as an asari justicar, creating order in a galaxy pummeled by chaos.When unknown enemies put her former crewmate Samara in danger, Shepard must once again reunite her friends...and confront the unconsummated love the two women shared on the Normandy SR-2. For the galaxy is not the same, and neither are they. The journeys before the advent of the Reapers and after their defeat have changed them...but how much?





	1. A New Bounty

Zaeed Massani was enjoying retirement far more than he dared admit. He thought he’d miss adrenaline, the feel of his fist smashing some idiot’s face into the floor, and the burn of shitty whiskey that he used to celebrate a bounty. But there was something to be said for sitting on his arse by a pool of water, watching birds fly and fish swim, and drinking as much cheap beer as he could without puking his guts out. After 50+ years of drinking, he wagered it would take a freighter full. 

He’d gotten enough credits from his years blowing up anything that moved that he could move to one of the rebuilding human colonies and live like a fucking king. Hell, he could splurge for a bit of plastic surgery, enough to keep any of his old enemies from settling a score. That is, if any were left who hadn’t been husked or pulverized in the war against the Reapers. Yet he wanted something quieter, for once, and this planet was just his speed.

A cluster of humans waved at him from the road out by his house. He gave a nod, raised a beer in the universal, “Cheers” gesture, and settled back down into his lounge chair. Nice enough people, the Townsends. A bit nosy, but that was something he had to accept if he wanted to live near civilization. They brought him supplies every week, plus a bit of dinner every Wednesday. In return, he’d done a bit of fixing up for them. Little things like repairing engines, rewiring transmitters, and shooting the occasional scavenger who thought a farming colony would be easy prey. It gave him just the right amount of target practice to keep his shotgun skills from completely rusting out.

A shadow passed over his scarred face and he swore at the unmistakable sound of an alliance shuttle coming for a landing to disrupt his afternoon. He took another swig of beer and tossed the bottle onto the pile, then straightened himself up to greet his visitors.

The familiar form of Commander Shepard, the galaxy’s persistent goddamn savior, strolled towards him, kicking up a storm of dust with every step. A step behind her was the scarred Turian whose prowess with a sniper rifle brought a tear to his eye and the huge pile of meat that served as her second-in-command. They walked up to the wooden fence and pushed their way through, walking down to his dock.

“Shepard,” Zaeed called. “You scared off my ducks.”

“Zaeed Massani,” she replied. “When did the word duck enter your vocabulary?” She broke out in a massive grin. “Did you finally realize the best way to handle bullets flying towards you is not to stop them with your fa-“

He cut off her insult with a back-slapping hug and handshake. He gave Garrus a wry salute.

“’Ello Garrus. Looking good. How’s Palavan?”

“High praise from the only other inhabitant of the Normandy to survive a gunshot to the head.” A firm handshake. “As well as to be expected. Nothing’s on fire anymore at least.”

Zaeed tossed his head at Vega. “And you, big… what’s your name. How’s Earth?”

“Damn good, if I say so myself.” A big goofy grin went across his tattooed face. “We're catching up hard and before you know it we'll be kicking everyone's ass again.” Zaeed nodded and commenced ignoring him, turning his attention towards the commander.

“What brings you here? Considering settling down for a bit of farming, Shepard? Plenty of space around here for you and Liara.” He gave a conspiratorial leer. “Heard you two already got busy with the first of those little blue brats. Congrats, by the way. I’ll send you a shipment of my favorite cigars once she pops her out.”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “How kind of you.” She leaned forward on a fencepost, propping her head up with the butt of her rifle. “I’m actually here to offer you a job.”

He laughed. “I’m retired. Besides, aren’t you out of suicide missions? Reapers are dead, Collectors blown to hell, Cerberus running around with its head up its ass. Even the geth are quiet.”

He watched the commander’s face carefully. She wasn’t stoic on the best of days; still got a bit of that youthful fire that let her drag him to hell and back. Her expression was dark, a bit frustrated, and deeply sad. He hadn’t seen her look like that since the end of the Reaper war. It wasn’t a good look on her.

“I need you to hunt a bounty. A dangerous one. It’s not a suicide mission but it’ll come damn near close.” 

He leaned closer and knocked the teasing tone out of his voice. “Like I said. I’m. Retired. I don’t even have a shotgun that fires anything more interesting than basic slugs.”

She waved her hand. “Whatever you need. Weapons. A ship. Credits.”

“Why me,” he prodded. “You’re married to the Shadow Broker, of all people. She could track down a vorcha who’s thrown himself into an active volcano and come up with his shoe size and favorite issue of Fornax. What do you need with a washed-up old mercenary?”

“We’ve already tried,” Shepard snapped, “We get a bite then the trail goes cold. Liara doesn’t have many resources to throw around and I’m not going to waste a hundred informants on a…personal matter.”

Zaeed stepped back and paced around his front yard. Sun was getting high, meaning his remaining beer would soon taste like lukewarm piss, but that bothered him less than it would on another day. The situation was all wrong. Shepard didn’t keep grudges. She would leave an enemy alive if it meant the greater good, which is why she let Vido live to keep from dry roasting a cluster of civilians. There were a hundred Cerberus traitors she could have thrown out of an airlock who she turned into her crew with absolute ease. He looked to the Turian, who gave him a slight, encouraging nod. 

“All right, fine. Who is left in this galaxy you still need hunted?”

Her answer was a sad breath. “Samara.”


	2. September, 2185CE: The Citadel – The Presidum

# September, 2185CE: The Citadel – The Presidum

_Sutra 512 - A Speaking by Matriarch Ryelia: What is good? What is evil? These terms are unabsolute/The good of the tree is not that of the fire/The good of the river is not that of the mountain/The Code states just and unjust/It is possible to do good and be unjust/To do evil and be just/The wise justicar troubles herself not such terms, even if she can recognize what they are/She is beyond good and evil_

Samara stood against the railing in the presidium, sipping a lukewarm glass of tea. She had not been to the Citadel in centuries, save the few times she had come through to change ships, and it felt strange to be an idle tourist instead of a stalking predator. The view was pleasant enough, though she knew the underbelly could be a filthy as Omega and insidious as Illium. The council’s influence gave a veneer of law and order but wherever the bright glare of the central light did not fall, injustice easily flourished. Samara could spend a hundred years clearing the Wards and never double back. Perhaps this would be her destination after she found Morinth.

Beside her stood their newest crewmember, the drell assassin Thane. He drank a different variety of tea, tinged with a medicinal herb with unproven antibiotic capabilities. Nothing sufficient to slow the crawl of his progressive disease but perhaps it enough to ward off any bacterial stressors. Thane said he had grown accustomed to the flavor, bitter as it was to his species, and was drinking it for enjoyment as much as prophylaxis. While the rest of the crew milled anxiously or shopped for upgrades, he seemed content to stand with Samara, watching the whirring of the sky cars.

He placed the stoneware behind him and a keeper sidled up, took the cup in its hands, and shuffled away. “I do not think I will ever be used to that,” he rasped. 

“It is an odd ecosystem,” agreed Samara. 

They stood silently a while longer until he started coughing and waved off her attempts to help him. A waiter took noticed and brought over another cup of the tea, which Thane took and sat down. Samara did so as well.

“It is welcome to be near someone who is not bothered by my profession,” Thane said. “Many asari would not sit so comfortably at the table of a trained killer.”

“I have spent my life surrounded by people with body counts more impressive than yours and demeanors more feral. Your life as an assassin is in contrast with mine, as I suspect not everyone whose life you ended would have been unjust in the eyes of the Code.”

“I disagree,” he said in his rattling voice. “Just as I am a weapon of my handlers, you are a weapon of your Code. There are those you have killed in the service of justice who would otherwise be considered good men or women.” He leaned forward on the glass table and crossed his hands. “When I am on a contract, I am in my battle-sleep. My mind is not my own and my soul is secreted away. I am a tool. I see your Code has made you a tool too.” 

“That is one way of seeing it, I suppose,” she said, tilting her head. “But I do not dissociate myself from my actions. When I take a life, I do so myself, with the Code as my guide.”

“But when your Code bids you kill a man, you do so without hesitation, as you were trained to, yes?”

“Without hesitation,” Samara confirmed. “If is it just to do so. That is my sworn duty.”

“The Code guides your hand. Your mind is silent. The Code has put you to sleep completely,” he said, without inflection suggesting he was being light-hearted. “There may be a day you must wake up to face who you are, as I am beginning to. As Irikah forced me to…” She heard his voice smile. “But that is a long memory for another time.”

Heavy boots behind them made the presence of Zaeed known. “They call this crap tea,” he growled. “The most refined palates in the goddamn galaxy and somehow the asari can’t make something an English whorehouse wouldn’t serve.” 

He tossed the cup over the side and the remaining liquid sprayed in an arc, spattering a handful of passersby who cursed upwards. “Bah,” was all he replied.

Samara wondered if the man had been borne coarse and brutal or if he had chosen to discard the parts of his soul that did not love the feel of a gun in his hands.

“Aye, so, what are you two talking about? Killing, I bet. That’s what we’re all the best at. Really the only thing we have in common.” He leaned against the railing and looked down at the two of them.

“Indeed. Shepard has amassed an impressive array of talented killers,” remarked Thane. “Each with different skills and different motivations. Nonetheless, we are all ready to work with her unquestioningly.”

“That’s the strange part, eh,” said Zaeed. “I kill for credits. Jack kills because she’s crazy and angry. You kill because some goddamn tentacle points you that way and you,” he leaned towards Samara with his scarred eye. “You kill because there are people who need killing.”

“The Code is not that simple, Mr. Massani, but your point is taken,” Samara said, not looking at him. “It is a testament to Shepard’s will that we are all here drinking tea instead of on our individual journeys.”

“Bah. I’m just here because the Illusive Man pays goddamn well,” said Zaeed, snarling in a way Thane did not seem impressed with.

“As I heard, you agreed to stay with the commander even though she forced you to save the lives of innocents instead of killing your arch nemesis,” Thane observed. 

“Yeah, well, I know she’d be good for it,” he said, rubbing his neck. “Maybe I could hit you up for a bit of backup when this Collector business is finished,” he proposed. “I never understand why you like to get so close. No need for that if you have enough ammunition.”

“Of the three of us,” Thane continued, “I would say only you, Samara, do not kill for cause. You support the Code in every form, but I sense you would rather not kill.”

“It is a testament to the state of the galaxy that dispensing justice is often accompanied by loss of life, innocent or otherwise,” she said flatly. “The Code would not exist in its form if taking life were easy.”

“Hah. But I bet your kill count would shame a krogan battlemaster,” chuckled Zaeed, not caring that neither of his companions joined in. “And they get paid!”

The conversation was beginning to become disquieting. She’d been asked for tales of heroics by many listeners, but a raw body count was something she preferred not to discuss. Unlike the drell, she lacked a perfect memory of each life she had taken. She recalled them nonetheless. The precise number was something that would take many hours of quiet contemplation to fully assess. She knew no matter how many the others extinguished, her count would always be higher.

“Why are we waiting,” growled Grunt from behind them. The pup Krogan lumbered in, drinking a container of fruit juice that Shepard informed him would be the hardest liquor he could drink. “We should be out there killing the Collectors, not eating on the Citadel.”

“When you have half as much battle experience as the Commander, you will be able to give us orders,” replied Thane with uncharacteristic firmness. “In the meantime, you will wait.”

“Where is she, anyway,” he grumbled, sitting down heavily in a chair that creaked and almost splintered under his bulk. “She and Garrus went away together. I was expecting a lot more sniper fire. Instead it’s all peaceful and quiet. And boring.”

“They had a task,” replied Samara. “Be still, Grunt.”

“Hmph. Asari.” He got up, the chair collapsing in protest in his wake, and stomped away.

“It’s damn unusual for a commander to be so fond of settling personal vendettas in the middle of a war, but I get it. You want everyone’s head in the game when it comes time for the big showdown.” Zaeed tapped his forehead with a stubby, stained finger. “I remember this job I did for a volus on the salarian homeworld. He needed a debt collected and wanted me to scare the bastard into paying. I did what I do best and got a bunch of guys together for an old-fashioned shakedown.”

Zaeed barked a nasty laugh. “Turned out one of those guys also had a beef on the salarian homeworld. Mission went to hell when he bailed midway through to go take care of business.” He banged his hand on the table. “If Shepard and Garrus want to get lunch or kill a guy, I’m all for it. Increases the chances we all come home at the end of the day.”

“She is a good woman,” observed Thane. “A rarity, I have found.”

“She is young,” retorted Zaeed. “I’ve known a few bred in the bone bastards but most assholes got that way after a few decades of dealing with this shit. This war will turn her. You’ll see.”

“I doubt that,” replied Samara, looking off into the distance. “I can see her morals have solidified. They may be tested but the core of who she is will remain true.” She allowed a small smile. “Call it intuition based on centuries of seeing the best and the worst that the galaxy has to offer.”

“Then we are lucky,” replied Thane. “It will be a welcome change to serve the greater good in my remaining weeks.”

“I’m just worried when the Reapers show up and blow the whole galaxy to hell she won’t be able to make the hard choices,” nodded Zaeed. “I’ve seen her give medigel to a Batarian who thirty seconds earlier would have shot her head off without hesitation. Choosing to give it to a Batarian or a human won’t be as easy. In those circumstances…let’s say she’d deliver mercy to that Batarian with a bullet to the head.” He mimicked the pull of a shotgun trigger with one hand.

“She was not born a killer nor was she raised as one,” noted Thane. “As a Spectre and a commander, she has more leeway as to how to handle her foes, yet she avoids a body count. I don’t know how one could compel her to raise it unnecessarily.”

“For all the chaos she sews when she comes through, I get the sense she wants people to pick up and walk away. She’d have made a phenomenal matriarch,” mused Samara. Her imagination placed Shepard in the garb of one of their elders, speaking to an avid collection of followers. “Of course, many asari spend their maiden years happily murdering their way across the galaxy, so perhaps not.”

“I didn’t know when I met her that I would be part of that sort of operation,” agreed Thane. “She pulls together assassins, mercenaries, born killers of every flavor. Yet here she is, not of that sort. She does more than tolerate us. She enjoys us, welcomes us. She walks the line between good and evil, moral and amoral.”

“And yet we haven’t swayed her, have we? She’s not turned into a rampaging bastard or a killing machine.” Zaeed suppressed a smile. “It’s just the opposite, isn’t it? Most of us have gotten a little softer being around her. Not sure yet if I mind.”

Familiar tones of their commander and her best friend disrupted the conversation and they all looked back expectantly. Garrus’ ruined face looked grimmer than usual – both frustrated and sad by equal measures. Shepard looked similar, though she seemed more resolute than her companion. The mission was obviously over and, as the pup noticed, there were no echoes of gunfire or fleeing civilians to mark a violent end. Shepard had found a peaceful solution, as hoped.

“Meet back on the Normandy in 20. We leave for Illium,” Shepard stated, not stopping to greet her crew individually. She stormed past them, close enough to a store that the automated kiosk chirpily stated, “I’m Commander Shepard and this is my favorite store on the Citadel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the sutras are official. They are based loosely on the language I have seen in other religious texts, primarily the Torah and Talmud.


	3. March, 2196CE: The Citadel - Shepard and Liara’s Apartment

## March, 2196CE: The Citadel - Shepard and Liara’s Apartment

_Sutra 115 – Revenge: The temptation exists among those not of the Code/to seek retribution for injustice, through fault finding and actions/But the justicar must not be tempted – it is unjust!/More blood is spilt through acts of vengeance than were ever let by acts of evil/And it is too easy for a just action to become unjust in the passion of revenge_

Firm and incessant knocking interrupted Liara’s afternoon of fretting over her family while trying to get her Shadow Broker contacts under control. EDI had offered to take over after the baby, but that meant organizing her personal network for another set of eyes. That plan was now on hold as her father waltzed into the apartment carrying bulky pastel bags.

“Guess who went shopping,” Aethyta sang, dropping the load onto the living room table. 

Liara rubbed her head and lumbered to the couch, sagging carefully down onto the cushions. Sitting was an act of delicate balance at this point in her pregnancy, which was why she preferred chairs. Unfortunately, everything but the sofa was covered by an eruption of baby items.

Blankets adorned with the flag of Thessia, a tiny shirt with the Eclipse logo on it, a rattle in the shape of the Destiny Ascension, and a huge book labeled, “Baby’s First Singularity” were all placed in front of Liara with an obnoxious flourish. A lightly panicking Liara noted this was just half of the first bag. When the toddler-sized replica of a Disciple, complete with light-up mass effect generator (according to the box) was produced, Liara held out both of her hands.

“Father, your enthusiasm is appreciated, but this is ridiculous.”

“Hey, I haven’t met most of my grandchildren,” retorted Aethyta, “Or when I did, I was too broke to buy them a damn thing. Let’s admit it: I don’t know how much longer I’m going to have…”

“Oh stop. At this rate, you’re going to outlast me,” grumbled Liara. “I did not know it was possible to die from aggravation.”

“Look at all this great stuff. I want the best for my granddaughter, Liara. You will too.”

“I already do,” Liara corrected. “Which is why I allow you into this apartment.”

Liara leaned over, picking up the flag-blanket. The overlapping patches formed a familiar triangle of soft fuzzy material. She could imagine a tiny blue baby on it, running her even tinier fingers of the symbol of their people.

“How are things on Thessia,” ventured Liara.

“Bad,” stated her father in that flat, perpetually annoyed tone she conjured when speaking about the asari.

“Oh really,” said Liara. She lifted up the cloth and waved it at the matriarch. “So bad that you spent a few thousand credits on things you know neither of us need?” 

“Worse. Half of those were gifts.” Aethyta sprawled out on the loveseat and draped herself dramatically across the back. “Tokens of favor. Gestures of thanks. Bribes, in other words. Half-assed ones at that.”

“Well, you are a matriarch advisor to innumerable members of the asari hierarchy. The least they could do is show some appreciation for your services.” Liara’s wry grin failed to defuse her father’s growing aggravation.

“Bah. Advisor. I’m a figurehead. They trot me out whenever it’s time to give a speech about forging ourselves a functional military.” From her recumbent position, Aethyta waved one hand widely while gesturing with a pointed finger, punctuating her words with each jab. “Then shove me aside when I break from the script. A third rate VI could accomplish as much.” 

Liara rolled her eyes. “Now you’re being dramatic. Speaking of...how are things?”

“Things?” Aethyta paused for a moment in a show of overwrought confusion. “Ah, yes. That business. As well as can be expected.” She groaned and rolled off the couch, easing into a cross-legged position. A glossy bag of clothing tumbled after her and spilled a heap of terrycloth towels onto the floor. “Sometimes I stand back and marvel at how much terrible shit we’re still digging up after all these years.”

“Concealment of the Prothean archives was a multi-generational undertaking. It took at least ten thousand years of calculated actions to simultaneously exploit and obscure the true source of asari wisdom.” Liara closed her fingers over her belly. “It’s unsurprising that unraveling the conspiracy has taken this long. In spite of your protests, evidence is being collected at phenomenal speed.”

“Yeah. About that. I’ve wondered how much you already know,” said Aethyta. Her voice carried a slivered edge Liara did not perceive until long after the conversation had ended.

Liara closed her eyes and leaned back. “It is bad business in the information world to pay for freely-given information unless obtaining it earlier will provide a tactical advantage. The researchers aren’t inclined to sell what they’re learning and nothing they unveil is time-sensitive.” She imitated her father’s dramatic sigh. “A thousand year lifespan means you can afford waiting few extra weeks to execute someone for obliquely contributing to the decimation of Thessia.”

“Don’t even joke.” Aethyta’s tone was ice cold and starkly bitter. “That assassination two years ago is a stain on these proceedings.” She stood up and dusted off the front of her dress, smoothed out the creases, and straightened the hem. 

“Asari shouldn’t espouse revenge.” With an uneasy turn, she circled away from Liara. “I don’t care what Javik says outside the athenium. This is a commission, not a war tribunal. We are here to uncover, not to sentence. That’s how we heal. Not by punishment. By comprehension.”

Liara blinked and steadied her breathing. In the short span of their rekindled relationship, Liara had managed to legitimately upset her father on rare occasions. The rigid posture, the commanding voice with a trace of resentment, the eyes that reflected disappointment and conviction. These were the signs of the matriarch Aethyta pretended she wasn’t. Liara found herself attempting to mollify someone who was usually immune to such sentiment.

“That was a careless comment,” ventured Liara. “The sanctity of the commission…”

“Spare me,” growled Aethyta. She walked back towards the bar and dug through the dusty bottles stored underneath the pockmarked wooden beams. For a moment she located her usual sardonic levity. “Seriously? This is the strongest stuff you have?”

“You’ll pardon my bondmate and I if we do not stock our liquor cabinet when I am pregnant and she is off the Citadel,” huffed Liara.

Her father came in with a curved glass of foaming purple fluid that she sipped reluctantly. She grimaced. “You’re not supposed to drink this stuff straight but any port in a storm.” 

Her mood snapped back like a plucked string and she looked down the bridge of her nose at her daughter.

“You have no idea what it’s like unpacking our culture.” Aethyta ran her finger along the rim of the glass. It sung under her attention. “Hell, it’s barely your culture. You spent your life immersed in a dead race. From your vantage point, we’re another anthropological puzzle.”

“That’s not fair,” interrupted Liara, but she was met by another uncharacteristic sneer from over the edge of the tipped glass.

“Really? You threw yourself into isolation on deserted worlds. Meanwhile, I lived it. All of it. The aimlessness of my youth, the fleeting connections of my matron years, and the desolation of being a pariah matriarch. The culture you abandoned was one that abandoned me. _That_ wasn’t fair, Liara.” 

Aethyta gripped the tumbler with whitening knuckles. “My whole life, my segregation from our people, was the result of a carefully-forged lie. I was an outsider in a culture designed to keep people like me out of power. That’s why I help uncover what they hid. They destroyed so much…including me,” she ended hoarsely. 

With a dramatic sweep, Aethyta finished the rest of the drink. The quivering of her arm made Liara tense with the anticipation of shattering glass. Instead, Aethyta deliberately lowered the tumbler onto the fireplace. 

Over dark-tinged eyelashes, she regarded her child. “But killing a member of the asari matriarchy only confirms what they believed: that truth is too hard for asari to digest. The truth is so dangerous that your mother let you chase lies rather than give up our advantage. For what?”

She turned her face aside, incompletely suppressing a quaver in her jaw.

“Father,” whispered Liara. 

“She lied for our entire relationship,” murmured Aethyta. “Died with a stain worse than Saren’s betrayal. I’ve spent four years waiting for the Temple guardians to bring up her role.” She hung her head and covered her eyes with her hand. “When they finalize that report, I will be forced to help Javik and the other matriarchs pillory my Nezzie…” 

Two shuddering breaths. “That’s one of the reasons I agreed to this. To being a mouthpiece. To sequencing the revelations…”

“To present a nuanced portrait of a wonderful woman who made terrible mistakes,” ventured Liara, unused to cowering in her chair.

“No. So I can sit with the information long enough to keep from bawling in front of the public.” She shuddered, shaking off the monologue and hurt like flakes of snow.

“Anyway, that baby of yours is going to grow up in a whole new culture.” Aethyta forced a half hearted grin and picked up the toy Disciple.

“No spending a century shaking her tits on Omega. No more roaming the galaxy and murdering for credits.” said her father. She removed the wrapping from the gun and let the cellophane scatter on the floor. Then she looked down the child-safe barrel with a trained eye and tensed her shoulders.

She aimed at the wall away from Liara. “Organized military training. Planetary defense. Colony building with an eye towards protectionism. Everything I’ve ever wanted the asari to be.”

Her father pulled the trigger and a whir started up, followed by a heavy “thunk” that mimicked the sound of an armor-piercing bullet. Aethyta’s laughter was equally fake.

“And all it took was the Reapers rolling over Thessia and all but obliterating our entire civilization in the space of a few weeks. What a kick in the quad.” She tossed the toy over to the side. It bounced awkwardly on the mantlepiece before settling on the floor. A shining piece of plastic shot off at the impact and vanished under a rug.

“Anyway,” said her father, sitting down and generating a farcical attempt at levity. “Let’s get unfolding. My granddaughter can’t help lead the revolution if she doesn’t have the right clothing.”

Aethyta shook off the comforting hand the Liara extended. “Nah, it’s fine. I just had a matriarch moment. It’ll pass.” 

The awkwardness dissolved over the next hour. By the time her father bundled off, Liara had all but recovered from her father’s outburst. She cleaned the apartment and pulled herself up the stairs to bed. An exchange of data with her contacts, a quick message to Shepard, and she concluded her night.

Then she watched the lazy turn of the ventilation fan splitting the orange glow that persisted beneath the shades. How much did the Shadow Broker know about the Prothean Commission? Deliberately little. There was nothing uncovered that she had not already guessed. 

The revelations were as boring as a society-wide betrayal could be. Thousands of years ago, certain elders decided the knowledge of the Protheans should be hidden from the rest of the galaxy to guarantee asari prosperity and success. There was no true structure to the society they created. It had no clever name, no rituals or markings. There was no roster, no meeting, no secretive communiques. You were selected to join and either you did or you did not. The researchers found several matriarchs who confirmed they were solicited and turned down a nebulous offer of great power, a discerning nature pushing them away from such secrets. No matriarchs who had abandoned the group could be found.

This enclave oversaw brilliant scientists disguised as the priestesses of Athame’s temple. Only the most successful students, those who were both brilliant and unusually ruthless, were taken to become their acolytes. Her mother prevented her from being invested in spite of Liara’s begging. Liara now knew why. Benezia knew her daughter’s morals would leave her unable to conceal the enormity of this lie. What would her mother think now of her daughter that dealt in secrets and deceit?

The result was as the absolute superiority of asari society. Even without the Cipher, the asari had made spectacular advances in biotics and technology, bolstered for millennia by the Prothean data. Those tasked with interpreting the beacons had apparently glossed over confusing images of the Reapers in favor of the technology the Protheans had left for fighting them. Still, it made Liara want to go back in time and run the halls of the Temple again, without her mother, trying to discern the nature of Athame instead of just digging in the dirt on other planets. 

Liara turned over and curled up as best she could around her pregnant belly. The more she learned, the more she wished she hadn’t. Ignorance did not suit her. She chose it nonetheless. Absent a cue from her most trusted agents, she left the leaked data unprobed. There were enough points of suffering in this universe, in this galaxy, in her world that yet another tortured revelation would do nothing but bring more pain. In time it would all be revealed. By then, perhaps, she would be ready. The commission would continue. Javik would run the proceedings, and Liara would focus on a life away from her people. A life with this child and her love. All the truth she needed for the time being.  


	4. May, 2185CE: Omega Nebula, Amada System, Alchera – Aboard the Normandy

## May, 2185CE: Omega Nebula, Amada System, Alchera – Aboard the Normandy

_Sutra 224 - The Fallen: Should the allies of the justicar fall in her service, the justicar must finish her pursuit and mourn them for the prescribed time/They gave their lives to guarantee her success, not merely as weapons but as extensions of her will/But they sacrificed their lives, and the deeds of justice they could have accomplished, for a purpose beyond their ken/To argue their deaths prevented injustice they could have committed is folly - the justicar who states that should rather be buried herself!_

Garrus caught Shepard by the arm as she went past the mess hall, tugging her politely into the main gun where he made his home. He watched the door slide shut and bent his head towards her conspiratorially.

“Odd for you to go on a mission alone, especially in the Terminus systems. Top secret Cerberus stuff? Council send you on something crazy? Must be pretty high-level for you to leave the Cerberus Queen behind.”

She looked past him at the blinking display on the weapons console. She’d have to ask him at some point what calibration meant in this context and how he knew how to do it. And why it took so long. And whether he could teach her.

“Just walking on my grave,” she said flatly. He flexed his mandibles at her in confusion and she shook her head. “Normandy crash site,” she clarified. “The Alliance managed to find where she crashed after the Collector attack. Hackett asked me to gather up the dog tags of the missing crew.” She paused. “Give them to their families. Give them some closure.”

Garrus closed his eyes and nodded. “Knowing your loved one is dead but not having proof makes it ten times harder. I’ve known troops to sacrifice a scout or two making sure the insignia of the fallen make it home.”

“Yeah. Same here. Plus,” Shepard turned around and gripped the railing around the gun. “Cerberus could use a bit of good press. I don’t want to delay our fight with the Collectors for something that’s not technically mission critical but getting some more Alliance on our side will help bolster the cause.” 

“How was it on the planet?”

Shepard blinked. “Quiet. Strange. I could see the Normandy in the pieces of the wreckage if I looked at it the right way. The CIC, the armory, the cockpit. Friends standing at attention or working their posts. Ghosts in the snow.”

The two stood in silence, listening to the whir of the plasma racing up and down the gun barrel. Shepard clutched the metal tighter. “I lost everything down there. My life. My ship. A good part of my crew. My standing with the Specters and the Alliance. My friends.” 

“And yet we’re coming back, Shepard,” urged Garrus. “The last two years have meant we all got stronger. Wrex couldn’t have rebuilt the Krogan. Tali couldn’t have gotten her own ship. I wouldn’t have spent two years cleaning out the trash on Omega.”

“We could have done more together,” snapped Shepard, regretting it immediately. She exhaled and turned around to face him. “We…I could have convinced the Council about the Reaper threat, built up an army, protected the colonies.” She looked him in the eye. “You made people’s lives better by being Archangel but you could have saved thousands of lives if we’d stayed on the Normandy.”

“Orrr…the Council would have ignored you and set you prancing all over the galaxy doing their dirty work while the rest of us drifted off on our own paths.” He put a clawed hand on her shoulder. “We were all loyal to you. We still are. Everyone who knows you’re alive will try to help even if they can’t come aboard.”

A catch formed in her throat. “I lost Liara, Garrus. The Illusive Man says she’s working for the Shadow Broker, which means she knew I was alive about 30 seconds after Cerberus did. I’ve heard from everyone else I ever knew and not a word from the woman I…” The word died in her throat. 

“Comm traffic works both ways,” Garrus said dryly.

“I know, but I figured…I don’t know. I wanted her to be excited. To reach out. To write to me. I feel like I chased her through our entire courtship. Is it wrong for me to want the opposite for once?”

“No, but…well…we’re reaching the edge of my knowledge of relationships here, Shepard, but I’ll say this. It’s been two years for her. Two awful years of waiting and wondering. Two years of trying to replace the woman she loved. There wasn’t much for her to hold on to, either. A handful of days on the Normandy and then an attack by an overwhelming enemy? I mean, what did you say on your way to being spaced?”

Shepard slumped. “Go. Now.” 

"Go. Now. Wow, Shepard, you really know how to let a girl down easy."

"I know, I know." The commander grimaced at the scarred turian, who raised a sharp eyebrow in return and then shook his head in friendly aggravation. "I mean, what was I supposed to do? Deliver a speech while the Normandy was disintegrating around us? Throw her up against the wall for a passionate clanging of breather helmets?" She sighed. "I don't know what I'm doing, Garrus. I mean, shouldn't I be looking for her and attempting to salvage our relationship?" 

She combed her pale fingers through her fire-red hair, then slumped back against the gun railing.

The turian idly fidgeted with his scar and shrugged. "I'm not a relationship man, Shepard. I shoot people. Sometimes, I make their armor explode in an impressive shower of sparks. That fixes my problems 95% of the time. If you want a solution to this particular form of mess, go ask Kelly."

"Oh lord, no. I’d throw her out an airlock if I could get away with it." 

"Then accept that I’m here to listen to you whine and to get myself the hell away from those Cerberus punks before I calibrate the main gun into Miranda's head." He paused. "That...came out far more inappropriate than I intended."

Shepard chuckled slightly. “It’s understood,” she said, gathering herself together. “I’ll go debrief the Illusive Man and arrange a drop-off. There have to be a few planets out here with courier services I can trust to get to Earth.”

“Well, last I heard we’re going to Illium to pick up another group of your misfit murdering band. It’s no Citadel, but the place has enough structure that you can buy almost anything for a price. Just don’t send it back on a ship full of red sand? That will look bad on your service record. Take it from me.”

“That sounds like a story I need to hear.”

“Not right now. I need to get back to some calibrations.” She turned away from the mischief in his eyes and returned to the CIC to plot their next destination. Then she paused. Perhaps she could address some of her relationship troubles with someone more versed in human-alien interactions.


End file.
